One feels a quickening of the pulse when one crosses a border.

truth ... is the first casualty of tyranny.

I love medieval cities; they do not clamor for attention; they possess their souls - their riches - in quiet; formal, courteous, they reveal themselves slowly, stone by stone, garden by garden; hidden treasures wait calmly to be loved and yield to introspective wandering.

Facts mean nothing to wounded feelings.

The past is a sorry country.

my love of water ... is mingled with and almost indistinguishable from a fear of water (I can float in a vertical position - I enter a fugue state - but I cannot bear to bury my face in water).

In the face of evil, detachment is a dubious virtue.